


Fleeting touches, darting glimpses

by Penthos



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall - Fandom
Genre: M/M, drabbleydrabble, i really like description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:13:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penthos/pseuds/Penthos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>00Q drabble</p><p>
  <i> His whole life had made sense, had been planned, and now he had something in front of him that he couldn't even begin to comprehend or decode. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fleeting touches, darting glimpses

Bond's arm brushed against his as he walked past, and through the layers of fabric, Q's skin tingled. That's all there was to it really. Fleeting touches, darting glimpses. 

Q could decode nearly every computer program and website in the world, he could deactivate a bomb with a single click, but the one thing he couldn't do, was describe Bond. 

Because Bond changed. Q found himself watching him often, memorising his habits and quirks, filing them safely away in the back of his mind. But the next day, he would do something differently, speak in a different tone, and to Q, there seemed to be no pattern. 

His whole life had made sense, had been planned, and now he had something in front of him that he couldn't even begin to comprehend or decode. 

Some people would describe Bond as a raging storm, mercilessly taking victims with him, leaving a trail of destruction and scars. 

Some would liken him to winter, cruel, cold and unforgiving. 

But Q didn't think of Bond a either of those things. Q might say that Bond was ineffable, but to him, Bond was a book. A book which was wide open, on show to the universe, written in an unknown language. 

So on the days where Bond would graze his arm, hold his gaze a second longer than necessary or stand a little too close, Q would remember. 

And eventually, over the course of months, Q finally began to pick out the intricate design. 

When Bond was in a good mood he took his coffee black. When he had made a mistake he flexed his fingers against his sides. When he looked at Q he gave a tiny almost imperceptible smile, unseen by anyone but Q. 

And the intangible mess which Bond had been suddenly made sense. Maybe the psychology classes at university had helped, but Q was beginning to read Bond, to get to know him, and he revelled in it. 

Bond liked watching the sunrise, but he hated getting up early. He played cricket but not football. He had only ever truly loved one person. That person had been Vesper Lynd. 

He had a scar above his lip, almost invisible. His poker face was astonishingly good, unless you brought up his past. When he was angry he ran his hands through his hair. His favorite smell was petrichor. 

Q stayed up late, curled up in his flat, wishing he could take back his heart he had placed in Bond's scarred hands that day at the gallery. He only  
hoped he wouldn't break it. 

Q watched Bond walk past, through the Q-Branch, and he smiled quietly to himself. He knew the man before him, who lay as an open book. You just had to learn his language.


End file.
